Carl Hiassen - Lucky You

Whose owners now assured Arthur Battenkill Jr. that it would be no trouble flying him to Marsh Harbour, none whatsoever.

As the judge showered and shaved for the last time as an American resident, he imagined how it would be, his new life in the islands. It would have been better with Katie, for a single middle-aged man surely would attract more notice and even suspicion. Still, he could easily picture himself as the newly arrived gentleman divorce – no, a widower. Polite, educated, respectful of native ways. He'd have a small place on the water and live modestly off investments. Discreetly he would let it drop that he'd held a position of prominence in the States. Perhaps eventually he would take on some piecework, advising local attorneys who had business with the Florida courts. He also would learn how to snorkel, and would order some books to help him identify the reef fish. He would go barefoot and get a nut-brown tan. There would be time for painting, too (which he hadn't done since his undergraduate days) – watercolors of passing sailboats and swaying palms, bright tropical scenes that would sell big with the tourists in Nassau or Freeport.

Leaning his forehead against the tiles in the steamy shower, the Honorable Arthur Battenkill Jr. could see it all. What he couldn't see was the plain blue sedan pulling into his driveway. Inside were three men: an FBI agent and two county detectives. They'd come to ask the judge about his law clerk, whose name had been helpfully provided by the judge's wife and secretaries, and whose toasted remains had been (less than one hour ago) positively identified by a series of DNA tests. If, as Mrs. Battenkill stated, the judge had assigned the late Champ Powell to the arson in which he'd perished, then the judge himself would stand trial for felony murder.

It was a topic that would arise soon enough, after Arthur Battenkill toweled off, got dressed, picked up his suitcase and – gaily humming the tune of "Yellow Bird" – walked out his front door, where the men stood in wait.

"What'll happen to your husband?"

Katie Battenkill said, "Prison, I guess."

"God." Mary Andrea Finley Krome, thinking: This one's tougher than she looks.

"There's a Denny's off the next exit. Are you hungry?"

Mary Andrea said, "Tell me again where we're going. The name of the place."

"Grange."

"And you're sure Tom's there?"

"I think so. I'm pretty sure," Katie replied.

"And how exactly do you know him? Or did you already say?"

Mary Andrea wasn't in the habit of road-tripping with total strangers, but the woman had seemed trustworthy and Mary Andrea had been frantic – spooked by Tom's divorce lawyer and rudely shouted at by the reporters. She would never forget the heat of the TV lights on her neck as she fled, nor the dread as she fought for a path through the crowd in the newspaper lobby. She'd even considered feigning another medical collapse but decided against it; the choreography would've been dicey amid the tumult.

All of a sudden a hand had gripped her elbow, and she'd spun to see this woman – a pretty strawberry blonde, who'd led her out the door and said: "Let's get you away from all this nonsense."

And Mary Andrea, stunned with defeat and weakened from humiliation, had accompanied the consoling stranger because it was the next best thing to running, which was what Mary Andrea felt most like doing. The woman introduced herself as Katie something-or-other and briskly took Mary Andrea to a car.

"I tried to get there sooner," she'd said. "I wanted to tell you your husband was still alive – you deserved to know. But then I got tied up at the sheriffs office."

Initially Mary Andrea had let pass the last part of the woman's remark, but she brought it up later, as an icebreaker, when they were on the highway. Katie candidly stated that her husband was a local judge who'd committed a terrible crime, and that her conscience and religious beliefs required her to rat him out to the police. The story piqued Mary Andrea's curiosity but she was eager to steer the conversation back to the topic of her scheming bastard husband. How else to describe a man so merciless that he'd burn down his own house to set up his own wife – even an estranged one – for publicly televised ridicule!

"You're mistaken. It wasn't like that," said Katie Battenkill.

"You don't know Tom."

"Actually, I do. See, I was his lover." Katie was adhering to her new-found doctrine of total honesty. "For about two weeks. Look in my purse, there's a list of all the times we made love. It's on lavender notepaper, folded in half."

Mary Andrea said, "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Go ahead and look."

"No, thanks."

"Truth matters more than anything in the world. I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

"And then some," Mary Andrea said, under her breath. She considered putting on a show of being jealous, to discourage the woman from further elaboration.

But Katie caught her off guard by asking: "Aren't you glad he's alive? You don't look all that thrilled."

"I'm ... I guess I'm still in shock."

Katie seemed doubtful.

Mary Andrea said, "If I weren't so damn mad at him, yes, I'd be glad." Which possibly was true. Mary Andrea knew her peevishness didn't fit the circumstances, but young Katie couldn't know what the Krome marriage was, or had become. And as good a performer as Mary Andrea was, she wasn't sure how an ex-widow ought to act. She'd never met one.

Katie said, "Don't be mad. Tom didn't set you up. What happened was my husband's fault – and mine, too, for sleeping with Tom. See, that's why Arthur had the house torched – "

"Whoa. Who's Arthur?"

"My husband. I told you about him. It's a mess, I know," said Katie, "but you've got to understand that Tommy didn't arrange this. He had no clue. When it happened he was out of town, working on an article for the paper. That's when Art sent a man to the house – "

"OK, time out!" Mary Andrea, making a T with her hands. "Is this why your husband's going to jail?"

"That's right."

"My God."

"I'm so glad you believe me."

"Oh, I'm not sure I do," said Mary Andrea. "But it's quite a story, Katie. And if you did cook it up all by yourself, then you should think about a career in show business. Seriously."

They were thirty minutes outside Grange before Katherine Battenkill spoke again.

"I've come to believe that everything happens for a reason, Mrs. Krome. There's no coincidence or chance or luck. Everything that happens is meant to guide us. For example: Tom. If I hadn't made love thirteen times with Tom, I would never have seen Arthur for what he truly is. And likewise he'd never have burned down that house, and you wouldn't be here with me right now, riding to Grange to see your husband."

For once Mary Andrea was unable to modulate her reaction. "Thirteen times in two weeks?"

Thinking: That breaks our old record.

"But that's counting oral relations, too." Katie, attempting to soften the impact. She rolled down the window. Cool air streamed through the car. "I don't know about you, but I'm dying for a cheeseburger."

"Well, I'm dying to speak to Mr. Tom Krome."

"It won't be long now," Katie said lightly. "But we do need to make a couple of stops. One for gas."

"And what else?"

"Something special. You'll see."

On the morning of December 6, Clara Markham drove to her real estate office to nail down a buyer for the property known as Simmons Wood. Waiting in the parking lot was Bernard Squires, investment manager for the Central Midwest Brotherhood of Grouters, Spacklers and Drywallers International. As Clara Markham unlocked the front door, JoLayne Lucks strolled up – jeans, sweatshirt, peach-tinted sunglasses and a baseball cap. She'd done her nails in glossy tangerine.